Past—how strangely swift!
It’s a year—mere months in darkness!
Months—clipped to weeks! And longest day— hours without our lights!
Twenty-four-seven heat and we don’t know when DUM will STOP
But oh! How slow the Future; slow to all
Of every age and being
UG students to pay utility bills? Oh you -urchin leaders
Fresh from Christmas-homes decorated with the sweats of the masses
The nation is saddened by “DUMSOR”
Darkness at brow o’er the empty pockets without jobs
Hate strains a stroke of early clock to a new fate
DUMSOR must STOP! Companies need to be restored!!
All-unwelcome bedtime stories aren’t mosquito free
No comfort yet no action to confront the collapsed cities
Cold touch of wiry sheet, ah! Ghana is not like home anymore
How vainly would another promise pierce like the “dum” half year and “sor” only hours to election?
Hath, all that while, been Time, the fleet of foot
Who—having won the Future all too soon—
With sudden turning, as of wheel reversed—
Unwinds that Future back into the Past
Spite of experience, he too holds
the Coming of a “Long Term Plan”
A long, long tract; blank space interminable to end DUMSOR
On which to inscribe his plans; wealth to be won;
Or honours added; or field joined to field;
Or glory achieved through arms, or art, or song and vigil
Till, on a day, he finds his head a-whitening
Yet, even then, his plans all unfulfilled,
May scarce yield credence to his own grey hairs
So surely, the future isn’t a place to hold old-age leaders who insult
Nay, not to All. A certain hill there is
Not like the mighty darkness that has collapsed a lot
‘In the midway of this our mortal life,’
Shapes the whole vision. Sculptor young was he
And teeming with the thoughts of his own years
Who first devised yon figure of old Time
He knew him old; and gave him withered limbs
Yet sinewy, and strong for work withal
“For the Youth believeth in a young man and long working day”
And those firm wings; for he had far to fly
And that stout scythe; for he had much to mow
As the highest leader on the land
His action couldn’t please any –not even those who trusted his youthful nature
A group—as young—regarding. Hopes and Fears—
Nay—Fears were none; but granulating hopes
Each for his own glad prospect.
While the gayer were jeering him.
As ‘Go thy way, Old Grey-beard!
The masses cry “DUMSOR –MUST –STOP”